


Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

by pendrecarc



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, also see notes, major character death is temporary, warnings for violence without consequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Day 1:</strong>
</p><p>“It’s taken care of, Finch,” Reese said. “The cameraman was the threat. Honestly, by the end I was tempted to let him get away with it.”</p><p>“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I’m afraid it doesn’t look like the roads will be passable until tomorrow morning, so you’ll be staying another night. At least you should have a quiet evening. You might consider it a holiday. I hope the accommodations at least are passable?”</p><p>“I’ve had worse.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself,” Shaw said. “I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> [hedda62](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62) isn't the only one who can use Shakespearean titles! I grant you that this one is less reverent than most.
> 
> This is what happens when I try to write crack fic as stress relief. See notes at the end for more detailed warnings.

“We’re going where?”

“Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania,” Finch said. “I admit it’s somewhat unusual, but the number belongs to a meteorologist who’s been assigned to cover the Groundhog Day festivities. He’s leaving the city this afternoon.”

Shaw looked to Reese for a reaction and got none. “A number’s a number,” he said, shrugging.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m driving.”

 

**Day 1:**

“It’s taken care of, Finch,” Reese said. “The cameraman was the threat. Honestly, by the end I was tempted to let him get away with it.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I’m afraid it doesn’t look like the roads will be passable until tomorrow morning, so you’ll be staying another night. At least you should have a quiet evening. You might consider it a holiday. I hope the accommodations at least are passable?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” Shaw said. “I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day.”

 

**Day 2:**

“Harold,” John said urgently, “what’s the date?”

A pause. “February 2nd. Is there something wrong with your phone, Mr. Reese? Or don’t they have calendars in Pennsylvania?”

“It was the 2nd yesterday,” Shaw cut in. “We got snowed in, we saved the number, and the rodent saw his shadow. We’ve done this already.”

The pause was longer this time. “Is everything quite all right with Ms. Shaw?”

“She’s fine. She’s telling you exactly what happened.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, John,” Finch said carefully. “I assure you that it’s February 2nd, and Punxsutawney Phil has yet to emerge. I think I had better come and provide some backup.”

“Great idea,” Shaw said. “How long will it take?”

“The weather may pose a problem, but I shouldn’t imagine more than a few hours. In the meantime, do you think you’re well enough to take care of our number?”

“Why not,” she said, off Reese’s blank look. “Not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

 

**Day 3:**

“No, don’t come out here,” Reese said. “You tried that yesterday and it didn’t work. We’ll come to you. But can you plot us a clear route? All the roads are blocked.”

“I’m not entirely certain you should be driving in your condition, Mr. Reese—”

“We’re not drugged, we’re not injured, we’re not hallucinating. Just get us out of here.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

**Day 4:**

“I don’t care that they’ve deployed the National Guard! Just find us a way out!”

 

**Day 5:**

“Perhaps your blood sugar is running low, Ms. Shaw. I understand that Bed & Breakfast does an excellent—”

She dropped her phone on the sidewalk, took out her gun, and shot it.

“You know,” Reese said, “I’m not sure that’s going to help.”

“Probably not,” she said, as one of the gaping bystanders recovered enough to call 911, “but I feel better.”

 

**Day 6:**

That morning, they exchanged a look and tossed both their phones in the trash.

 

**Day 7:**

“That really should have worked,” Reese said, looking in consternation at the smoking remains of the snowmobile they’d commandeered.

The meteorologist moaned a bit, flopping in the snow. His arm was broken, but other than that he hadn’t come off too badly.

“Oh, shut up,” Shaw said. “You’ll be just fine in the morning.”

 

**Day 8:**

“I swear to God, Reese, if you don’t stop whistling that fucking song, I’m going to shoot something, and it won’t be my phone this time.”

“Try Phil,” he suggested. “Groundhog for dinner would make a nice change.”

 

**Day 9:**

They got into a spectacular and very public fistfight after saving the number and spent the next evening in lockup, but only because there didn’t seem much point in escaping.

 

**Day 10:**

“You brought us here,” Reese snarled up at Punxsutawney’s single traffic camera, ignoring the honks of cars waiting to get through the intersection. “We took care of it. Ten times! Now _get us out_.”

 

**Day 11:**

“So I’ve got a theory,” Shaw said. “I’m gonna make myself scarce and try it out. You good to take the number?”

“Sure,” Reese said, listless. “Think I might change it up a little and lock him in the supply closet today. What are you doing?”

“It’s a surprise. Don’t come looking for me, Reese.”

“How will I know if it worked?”

“You’ll know. See you tomorrow.”

Of course he came looking anyway. It took a while, but just before sunset he found her stretched out in the woods just outside town, a spray of blood turning the snow around her head bright red like a grisly halo. He dropped to his knees and didn’t move until midnight.

 

**Day 12:**

At 6:01 AM, he broke down the door to her room.

“Ah, shit,” she said, sitting up and looking around.

Reese loomed over her, face like thunder and voice like velvet. “What were you thinking?”

She rolled her eyes. “It was worth a try.”

“That is not your decision to make.”

“Pretty sure it is,” she said. “Do you mind? I died last night. Think I want to sleep in today.”

He’d have slammed the door on his way out, but, well.

 

**Day 13:**

They didn’t talk.

 

**Day 14:**

Didn’t talk that day, either.

 

**Day 15:**

They sat glowering at one another over breakfast until Shaw broke the silence. “Looks like they’re out of marmalade. Again.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she said, staring at her toast. “Guess I live in hope.”

“Not what I meant. What were you expecting the other day? That you’d wake up and it’d be February 3rd? That you _wouldn’t_ wake up?”

“Either way, it’d be an improvement on this.”

“Care to explain that?”

“Is that a lecture coming on?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. “Because I’m not done eating yet.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could get another word in she sighed and pulled a gun from under the table.

He blinked. “You can’t just shoot me because you don’t want to listen to me, Shaw.”

“Wanna bet?” she asked, offering her sweetest smile.

 

**Day 16:**

“What was that, another experiment?”

“And good morning to you, too,” she said. “Can we have this conversation while I’m in the shower?”

“No,” Reese said, and shot her.

 

**Day 17:**

The locks were laughably easy to pick, but doing it quietly enough to avoid waking an ex-CIA agent was more of a challenge.

Triumphant at last, Shaw slipped through into his room, only to find the bed neatly made and his entire arsenal missing.

“Okay,” she said, “if that’s the way you want to play it.”

 

**Day 22:**

“Mr. Reese!” Finch said. “What exactly is going on down there?” 

“Can this wait, Finch?” Reese asked, peering over the edge of the roof. He was braced against the steeple of the Punxsutawney Presbyterian Church, an SSG 3000 clutched in one hand. “These aren’t optimal conditions for firing at this distance.”

“No, it cannot wait! The reports I’m getting from your location—”

“Yeah, sorry about that. This round got a little bit out of hand.”

“Round of what, may I ask?”

“Ever played laser tag, Finch?”

“It wasn’t a laser gun that took out the bell tower of the old Punxsutawney Opera House.”

“Well we didn’t pack laser guns, did we? Don’t worry, the rules are very clear on civilian casualties. Clean shots only.”

“Mr. _Reese_ —”

“Sorry, Harold, I’ve got to go. Loser takes the number tomorrow, and I’m getting sick of his face.”

 

**Day 38:**

“Do I get a prize for winning three times in a row?” Shaw asked, leveling her pistol at his face.

Reese grinned, panting. “You get to say I told you so.”

“For what?”

“I admit it, this would have been more fun if I’d let you pack the grenade launcher.”

 

**Day 49:**

It wasn’t that high-speed snowmobile chases through residential areas got old, exactly; it was just that they were both getting sick of Punxsutawney’s limited culinary offerings. They called a truce one afternoon and spent the time ransacking the spice aisle at the grocery store.

“I don’t know,” Reese said, frowning over a steaming ladle. “It might need more paprika. What do you think?”

“Holy God this is good,” Shaw said, eyes fluttering closed. “Where’d you learn to make goulash?”

“There was this job in Budapest….”

 

**Day 67:**

“Mr. Reese. Do you have an update for me?”

“Not yet. We’re looking into his last job, the one in Pittsburgh.”

“I have quite a bit on that.”

“Thought you might.”

“I’ll forward it to your phone.”

“Actually, could you read through it for me? Need to keep my eyes on him for a bit.”

“If you like, but it might take a while.”

“That’s fine,” Reese said, curling his hands around a mug of the B&B’s tepid coffee. “We’ve got time.”

 

**Day 82:**

“Your Farsi is terrible. How’d you get through the Farm with an accent like that?”

“I had other specialties,” Reese said. “And Kara could pass for a native speaker.”

“Who’s Kara?” He hesitated. She sloshed her can of cheap beer at him. “Come on, who am I going to tell? How’s this—I give you a few hours of remedial language lessons, and you give up one of your deepest, darkest secrets.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Never thought you knew how to let your guard down, Shaw.”

She shrugged. “Guess I don’t really see the point just now.”

“So what’s one of _your_ deepest, darkest secrets?”

She considered it a moment, then leaned in and dropped her voice. “When I was thirteen, my one ambition was to play the trombone.”

“You’re a lousy liar when you’re drunk.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, pausing to finish off the beer. “Baby steps.”

 

**Day 103:**

“Now you’re just fucking with me,” she said, staring down at the case in her hands. “Where’d you get this?”

“High school band room. Not like they’re using it. Mrs. Peterson on Elm Street wasn’t taking new students, but I maxed out the withdrawal limit on Harold’s debit cards, and I think she’s changed her mind.”

 

**Day ???:**

“You really want to know about Stanton?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. I want to know about Cole.”

 

**Day ???:**

“Mr. Reese?”

“Harold.”

“Is something wrong? It’s almost midnight.”

“Eleven fifty-eight.”

“Has something else happened with the number? Are you—”

“No, we’re fine. I just—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow, Finch.”

 

**Day ???:**

“Reese.”

“Hmm?”

“You think maybe we’re missing something? Some easy way out of this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Four hundred thirty days and you’d think we’d have found it by now.”

“Four hundred twenty-six,” she corrected, but he shook his head.

“You’re forgetting the second time we tried the snowshoes, and the—.”

“No, I got that one.”

“Then it was the one where—”

“Reese,” she said.

He stopped. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

 

**Day ???:**

They’d just dumped the cameraman in front of the police station, because neither of them really felt like babysitting duty, and they were trudging through the slushy streets in silence.

It wasn’t that they’d said everything there was to say, exactly. It was just that there was no point having a conversation today when you could just as easily have it tomorrow.

They’d passed the same corner a hundred times before, maybe more. That brown station wagon always ran right through a puddle, and they were both ready to step to the side and avoid the spray.

And then a payphone rang.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Groundhog Day fic starring two people who shoot things for a living, so there's a fair bit of violence treated even more lightly than it is in canon. None of it's graphic, except possibly for a single, brief scene in which one of the characters kills themselves in an attempt to break the loop.


End file.
